


The Wages of Boredom

by Sherlocked221C



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crime, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-14 07:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2182551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlocked221C/pseuds/Sherlocked221C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John convinces Sherlock to take on a blackmail case to stave off boredom, but they soon find that this case brings on more than they'd bargained for.  Rated T for language, violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was previously published on another fanfic site and now is going up here as well! I have written Star Trek fanfiction before but this is my first Sherlock fic, so I appreciate reviews. Anyone in the UK, please let me know if my British slang isn't spot-on. I hope you enjoy!

 

_"Should any of you require the services of either of us, I will solve your murder but it takes John Watson to save your life. Trust me on that. I should know. He’s saved mine so many times and in so many ways.”_

_—Sherlock Holmes, The Sign of Three_

  **From the Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

18 February 2012

I’ve been looking forward to blogging about this case. It began two weeks ago as just another chilly winter morning. I had worked a late shift at the surgery the night before, trying to make up for some of the times that Sherlock had me busy with a case, so I was still asleep, snuggled warmly under the duvet, when this…sound…worked its way into my mind. I opened one eye. The cloudy sky had finally stopped raining. I rolled over, pulling the covers over my head. There it was again!

Twang-thud.

My eyes narrowed.

Twang-thud.

I sat up on the edge of my bed, rubbing my face, noting that I needed a shave—badly.

Twang-thud.

Shuffling out of my room, I descended the stairs and peered around the corner to the sitting room. There stood Sherlock in his pajama bottoms, inside-out T-shirt, and dark blue dressing gown, with what appeared to be an ancient English longbow in his hands. A human-shaped target was propped against the wall near the window. Several arrow-shafts had pierced its torso and one protruded from the head. Sherlock’s laptop sat open on the desk, and a table of indecipherable data glowed from the screen. He drew the bow slowly, its limbs creaking under the strain, and let another arrow fly. Twang-thud.

He didn’t turn to face me, but bent to enter more data into the computer. “I know you’re there, John.”

I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorframe, amused by my flatmate. “Sherlock,” I said, “What are you doing?”

“Solving a six hundred eighty-three year-old case.”

Shaking my head, I had to smile. “What?”

Sherlock laid the longbow carefully on the desk and ran his fingers through his hair, then twirled dramatically across the room and threw himself onto the couch. "Bored!” he declared loudly to the room. “No new cases in the past ten days, so I thought I would clear the name of Sir Richard Bartley.”

“Who’s Sir Richard Bartley?”

He turned from his study of the ceiling and gave me one of those looks, the _My God, I can’t believe you’re this dense_ kind of looks, and put his forearm over his eyes. “Sir Richard was convicted of murdering his lord, Sir Henry de Puttinham, in 1328, with a longbow. From the written testimony it’s obvious he was innocent. By measuring the depth of penetration of the arrows, I’ve been able to determine that Sir Richard was far too distant to Sir Henry to have fired the arrow that killed him. Too bad I wasn’t there. They beheaded him. Case closed.”

“Well,” I said, “I suppose I should be happy you haven’t been firing my gun at the wall this morning, Sherlock.” I turned into the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Yes.”

The coffee maker sat, not entirely incongruous, among a collection of flasks and beakers from one of Sherlock’s latest forensic experiments. I threw a filter into the machine and flipped it on, then reached into the refrigerator for the carton of milk, praying that I wouldn’t find a severed foot in there.

There was a knock on the door, followed by Mrs. Hudson’s voice. “Boys! I have the post!” I rushed to the hall to let her enter. She handed me the small stack of letters, mostly bills, which I took over to the mantel to sort. Sherlock keeps important papers there, pinned to the mantel with a multi-tool knife. I pulled out the knife, tossed the bills onto the mantel, and plunged the knife into them, smirking a bit because I wanted to shock Sherlock a little. I then turned my attention to the letters. The first was from Sherlock’s Mum. I placed it on the mantel with the others (though I didn’t impale it). The other was also addressed to Sherlock, but had no return address. I flipped it over, searching for some identifying marks. It was postmarked London. The handwriting consisted of bold, elongated letters, black ink. Of course, Sherlock would certainly make much more of it, probably could tell that the ink was made in Budapest or some other damn place. In fact, he had probably written a treatise on international inks.

Mrs. Hudson entered, bearing a tray with coffee and pastries. “Oh, ta, Mrs. Hudson,” I said gratefully, and snatched one of the sweets from the tray. She placed it on the desk, rolling her eyes at the target and the arrows. “Have a good day, boys,” she said. To me she added, nodding in Sherlock’s direction, “Make sure he eats something. You know how he gets.”

As she left, I poured myself a cup. “Letter for you,” I said, tossing the envelope to him. It landed on his chest. He picked it up to inspect and came over to sit at the desk, stepping right over the top of the coffee table as usual, and helped himself to a pastry.

Sherlock turned to me and held up the envelope. “Well—what do you see here?”

I took a sip of the hot coffee. “ From London, sent first class, handwritten, possibly by someone who seems to be self-assured. Other than that, I really couldn’t tell much more.”

“A good start, John,” Sherlock returned with a slight smile. “There may be hope for you yet. I agree, the handwriting indicates a strong personality. And…being handwritten, no one had their secretary type this out. A personal letter, then. Not sent via email, too easy to hack. Let’s find out.” He deftly slit the envelope with a knife and extracted a letter, which he handed to me. “Go ahead and read it—I want to think.” And he closed his eyes as I read.

“Dear Mr. Holmes,

I need your help with a blackmail problem. My job places me in the public eye on a regular basis. I cannot afford to allow this to continue, nor can I allow this information to be revealed. Please consider meeting with me at my home, 15 Queensberry Place, Chelsea. You may call upon me there at 10 a.m. any time this week, at your convenience.

Yours,

Sterling Armistead”

“Good Lord,” I muttered. “Now that’s really something.”

Sherlock opened his eyes to look at me. “Should I be excited about this?”

“Yes…yes, indeed. I know you don’t watch much telly, Sherlock, so I’ll enlighten you. Sterling Armistead is one of the most well-respected newsreaders in the country.”

“But it’s blackmail, John,” he said, disgusted. “As a rule, I generally hate blackmail cases. I know, I’ve taken them before, but usually they’re so dull. It’s hard to find one any better than a 5.”

“Sherlock,” I said, tossing the letter on the desk in front of me, “A few minutes ago, you were complaining that you were bored. Not only that, but you’ve bills to pay, same as me. Besides, a famous newsreader—could be interesting. Come on—you know that some of our most intriguing adventures began as simple blackmail cases.”

His head fell back and I heard a sound of chagrin. “All right,” he conceded. “The sacrifices I make. It’s nearly ten now.” He got up and headed for his room. Five minutes later, he emerged, dressed, with coat and scarf in hand.

As usual, we took a cab to Chelsea. Sherlock was silent throughout much of the ride, though he did determine that the driver was returning to university but was worried that he wouldn’t be able to afford the tuition; that he held down a job as a male dancer on the side and that he hadn’t revealed this to his family. By the time the driver turned from Sloane Street onto King’s Road, I knew the man’s life history. The cab finally came to a stop outside a townhouse on a quiet side street.

“Nice,” I said. Sherlock was quietly studying the house; he stood still for a few moments, then jogged up the steps to ring the bell.

A maid answered the door. “Good morning,” Sherlock announced. “We’re here to see Mr. Armistead.”

“Whom shall I say is calling, sir?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “I believe I’m expected.”

She disappeared into the house, then returned a minute later and beckoned us inside. We stepped into a well-appointed entrance hall, and she led us into a sitting room. Sterling Armistead rose from his chair and strode quickly across the room to greet us.

“Mr. Holmes,” he gushed, shaking Sherlock’s hand, “I am so glad you agreed to come.” He turned to me. “And you must be Dr. Watson. A pleasure, sir.”

I admit I was initially surprised, but we’d already found out that royalty read my blog, so I guess it wasn’t so surprising after all. I held out my hand and he wrung it in a firm grip. Armistead was the typical picture of a newsreader—perfectly coiffed dark hair, square jaw, deep voice.

“Won’t you both sit down?” he asked, and gestured to a set of Victorian chairs near the fireplace. Sherlock and I took a seat opposite Armistead, who gripped the arms of his chair nervously.

Sherlock spared a glance at me before saying, “Mr. Armistead, what can I do for you?”

“As I said in my letter, I’m being blackmailed, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “I began receiving anonymous letters about 6 weeks ago. In each, there was a copy of a photo of me in a compromising position with a young lady. An apparently underage young lady. They were,” he hesitated, “shall we say, high-def.”

“Do you still have any contact with the woman in question?” Sherlock asked.

“No, and I hate to admit that…unfortunately, I didn’t even know her before that night.” Armistead’s face flushed with embarrassment. “We’d had a party at the newsroom that evening, and a group of us went out in Soho after. We were bored, what can I say?”

“Where did you meet her?”

“We went to a club—one of those new trendy spots—all thudding music, flashing lights, probably a lot of ecstasy being thrown down in dark corners. It was called Hot Rave. Three of us had some drinks at the bar, just girl-watching and having fun, you know? Before I know it, this bird’s right next to me, getting really friendly. She said her name was Bridget…Bridget Shaw. We had a few drinks, and I remember leaving with her. After that, I really have no recollection of what happened. Woke up in a room at the Dorchester the next morning. She was gone.” His head dropped into his hands.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. “Who went to the club with you?”

Armistead shrugged, “Bill Walters and Jim Richman. Bill’s the morning show guy, and Jim’s one of our producers.”

“And they didn’t see you leave?” inquired Sherlock.

“I talked to both of them. Jim saw me dancing with Bridget, but left to go home. Bill said he went to get another drink and that we’d disappeared by the time he returned.”

“What else did the letters say?” I asked.

Armistead smiled unhappily. “Only that I need to pay £10,000, per month, indefinitely. I was to drop it at a locker at Waterloo Station and leave. They said I was being watched, and that if I remained in the station after the drop or didn’t make the payment on time, they would release the photos to the press.”

Sherlock nodded. “I want to see the letters,” he said.

“I assumed you would,” said Armistead. He opened a large envelope which lay beside him on a table and removed three letters which, hands shaking a little, he handed to Sherlock and me. I noticed Sherlock’s eyes widen slightly as he perused his copy. My eyes widened a bit as well. The letters were printed by a laserjet printer. There was the photo, in which Armistead, completely nude, cavorted (for lack of a user-friendly internet term) with the similarly-revealed young Bridget, who appeared no older than sixteen to me. It was pretty obvious that Armistead’s high-profile career would be finished if these images saw the light of day.

 

Later, Sherlock and I sat in the back of another cab, headed back to Baker Street.

“How do you want to start with this, Sherlock?” I asked.

A corner of his mouth turned up in a mischievous smile. “We need to smoke out young Ms. Shaw. How do you feel about going clubbing tonight?”


	2. Chapter 2

That night after dinner, Sherlock donned his “ear hat.” 

“What you are doing?” I asked.

He turned to me with a scowl which led to a short laugh. “I’m famous, John, thanks to your blog and this hat. I need to be noticed at the bar—as I intend to be the bait for our blackmailers.”

We headed out to Soho and the “Hot Rave.” It was crowded with revelers, though to my relief, at least some of them were older. I had feared we would be definitely out of our age group. To my great surprise, Sherlock headed straight for the bar and ordered a beer. I followed him and did the same. There certainly was no lack of notice as he made his way through the crowd, still wearing the deerstalker. Murmurs of “It’s that detective” and “Sherlock Holmes” pursued us. He eventually removed the hat and tucked it into a pocket of his Belstaff coat, ruffling his hair back into place. 

“Now they know we’re here.” He turned and took a sip of his drink, eyes carefully studying the customers near the bar, then the dance floor. It was difficult to make out features of the dancers with the flashing lights. As I turned to pick up my beer, he nudged my elbow.

“John,” he said, “Look there. It’s our Miss Shaw.”

I followed Sherlock’s gaze to a table near the edge of the dance floor where the young blonde woman sat, nursing a drink. She appeared to be alone. “She wasn’t there a few minutes ago,” I said.

He nodded and had another swig of beer. “Just came out,” he said, leaning over for me to hear above the thudding dance music.

“You think she’s been placed there for a reason?” I asked.

“Obviously,” he nodded. “A celebrity has just entered the establishment.” He then summoned the bartender and ordered a gin and tonic. “Keep an eye on her, John,” he said. “I’m off to the bog.” 

When Sherlock returned, he staggered up to me, reeking of gin. “Has she moved anywhere while I was away?” he muttered in my ear.

“Nope. I think she’s waiting for you, Romeo.”

He rolled his eyes, then set his glass down with a thunk, and picked up the refill the bartender had set out for him.

“John,” he said. “Make sure you follow us. We need to be able to talk to this girl. I don’t want to get the police involved—at least, not yet.”

Suddenly turning, he drunkenly approached the girl. She looked up at him, smiling invitingly. Within ten minutes, they were leaning closely together. I moved a little back from the bar area, but close enough to keep the pair under surveillance. Clearly this was a side of Sherlock that I hadn’t seen before.

A few minutes later, Bridget took Sherlock by the hand and tugged him out of his chair. I realized they were moving toward the entrance as he lurched and stumbled through the crush of partiers. He risked a look back at me, and I gave him an encouraging nod. I grabbed my coat and made for the door. They were just entering a cab as I my feet touched the pavement. Sherlock stalled by having a little trouble getting inside, as I hailed an approaching cab for myself.

“Where to, mate?” my cabbie asked.

I pointed past him, indicating Sherlock’s taxi. “See that cab?” I asked. “Follow it, wherever it goes.”

“No problem,” he assured me, and managed to trail the other car right to the Dorchester, where Armistead had found himself a few weeks before. I handed the cabbie a £10 note and leapt from the car. Sherlock and the girl had reached to door of the hotel. I followed, trying to be sure she didn’t notice me.

They were standing over by the lifts. Bridget had her arms firmly locked around Sherlock’s waist and he smiled crookedly down at her. When she looked away, his eyes met mine pointedly. They said, _YOU’D BETTER GET ME THE HELL OUT OF THIS, JOHN_. A lift opened and they stumbled inside, giggling, while I raced across the lobby to the lifts. Carefully watching the display, I made a note of the floor at which the lift stopped (it was four), then took to the stairs, figuring I could probably get up there more quickly than waiting for a lift of my own. I jogged up the stairs, thighs burning by the time I was between three and four. I came to a halt at the stairwell door and cautiously pushed it open. From the far end of the hall, I heard a door slam. I entered the hall and quietly walked to the other end, making no sound on the plush carpet.

When I reached the end of the hall, I looked from room to room. Their room could be any one of six. Luckily, Sherlock, being his usual clever self, laughed loudly, loud enough for me to hear him through the door of one of the rooms on the right. Checking to see that the coast was clear, I drew my Browning from my jacket pocket and knocked boldly on the door. The girl cracked it open.

“Yes?” she asked warily.

Putting on my best military face, I said, “Need to speak with you, Miss.”

“Are you with the police?” She asked.

“Sort of, “ I replied.

“Sorry,” she said, “I can’t talk to you now,” and tried to close the door. Oh, no, you don’t, I thought. I stuck my foot between the door and the jamb as she struggled to shut it. That didn’t feel good. I pulled up the Browning and stuck it into her face.

“Yes,” I said. “I think you can.”

That did the trick. “All right, all right!” she pleaded. “I have to get the chain.”

“Miss Shaw, “ I warned, trying to look as threatening as possible, “Don’t even think about locking me out. If you do, I’ll just break it down.”

I allowed her to close the door briefly, the she reopened it. I kept the Browning on her. “Sherlock!” I called. I motioned her further into the room to find Sherlock’s lanky frame stretched out on the bed.

“John,” he slurred. “She got me.”

“What?” I asked.

“Jabbed me in the thigh with something,” he answered. “So stupid…I was sure she’d go for my drink.”

“What was it?” I asked, worried.

He grinned. “John, as you may have deduced, I do have some prior experience with certain… sub…substitutes…substances. Don’t think I’ve ever had this before. “

“What does that mean, Sherlock?”

“Dunno,” he slurred. “You’re the doctor, means you’re reaso-bly intelligen…figure it out.” His head fell back against the pillows.

My mind raced. Now what to do? I looked over to where the girl cowered near the desk. “Miss Shaw, come on over here, right now,” I ordered. “Is there anyone else in this room?”

“No, sir—I swear!” She really did look frightened.

“Right then,” I said. “Uh, look. I need to be able to tend to this man without worrying about you. What’ve you got in your bag over there? Bring it to me.”

She complied, dragging a large duffel across the room. “Show me what’s in there, yeah?” I said.

The girl unzipped the bag and removed: a tripod, a nice camera, lingerie, some hypodermics, vials of meds, and handcuffs. I was right in thinking there might be something useful in the bag. In one of Armistead’s incriminating photos, there was a particularly interesting one involving the cuffs.

“Hand me those cuffs .” She obeyed, and I pulled her into the bathroom. I cuffed her to the shower door. “Now sit tight,” I said. “Are we expecting any company?”

She shook her head. “No, sir. They always left me to take care of things myself.”

“Right—good.” I reentered the main room. Sherlock remained semi-conscious. I lay my gun down on the bedside table and reached for the vial of meds Bridget had removed from the duffel. Yep—Rohypnol, a sedative said to be commonly-used as a date-rape drug. It takes effect in about fifteen to thirty minutes after ingestion, would be even faster by injection, increased by alcohol, leads to sedation, inhibition and retrograde amnesia. It was likely Sherlock would be out of action for the rest of the night, possibly into tomorrow morning as well, though I hoped his speedy metabolism would shorten the drug’s duration of action.

“Bridget!” I called into the bath. “Did you give him anything besides the Rohypnol?”

“No,” she answered sulkily. “At least, nothing I know of.”

I shook Sherlock by the shoulder. “Sherlock,” I said, then more loudly, “Sherlock!”

His eyes fluttered open briefly. “Wh-what?”

“Listen, Sherlock,” said, forcing him to look at me, but his eyes began to close. “No, no, no. No, you don’t—Sherlock—you’re going to be drugged through most of the night. I don’t have anything to reverse it. When you do come ‘round, you probably won’t remember any of this. I’m going to stay right here, yeah? And you’re going to be fine.”

“Mm—sure.” He began to snore.

I got up to check on Bridget. She remained shackled to the shower door. “Sorry, Miss Shaw. You’ll be spending the night in here. Let me know if you need to use the loo.”

She nodded. I think the sight of my Browning aimed at her nose when we first met mellowed out any resistance. I crossed the room and pulled a chair closer to the bed, slipped out of my shoes, and put my feet up. I checked on Sherlock several times through the night. His respirations and heart rate remained fine, and I decided he wasn’t in any danger. Finally tipping my head back, I allowed myself to fall asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

I woke in the chair to find the sun streaming in through the windows. Sherlock was still asleep, having rolled over onto his stomach sometime during the night. I went into the bathroom and woke Bridget, unhooked her from the shower and allowed her to use the loo, then re-cuffed her. “Again, Miss Shaw, I do apologise for your discomfort. We’ll get you out of here once Sherlock wakes up. “

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked warily.

I crossed my arms. “That’ll be up to Sherlock,” I told her. “He’ll have some questions for you. I would suggest to you that you answer them and follow his instructions to the letter. “

Returning to the bedroom, I grabbed Sherlock’s foot. “Oi, Sherlock,” I said loudly. “Time to wake up.”

There was a groan from my friend, and he stirred. Finally, his eyes opened and focused on me. “John?” he asked, his normal baritone voice deeper and rougher than usual. “Where are we?”

“Dorchester,” I said.

“Hm,” he noted. “People really _will_ talk.”

"No, they won’t,” I returned. “You arrived with a hot little blonde number.”

He nodded slowly. “Oh—right. Miss Shaw. I recall arriving at the hotel last night, but nothing further.” Sherlock’s eyes scanned the room, taking in details. “Where is she?”

I nodded toward the bathroom. “She’s our guest. I handcuffed her to the shower.”

His eyes widened, amused. “Once again, remind me not to get on your bad side.”

I smiled. Getting up, I asked, “Tea?”

“God, yes.” He swung his legs off the bed and rubbed his eyes. “John, believe me when I say that I feel worse this morning than any other ‘morning after’—ever. And I’ve had a few of those. “

When the tea was made and Sherlock had managed to down at least a half-cup, I went into the bathroom and freed Bridget. “Come on,” I said, escorting her back into the bedroom where Sherlock was waiting. Dragging over the desk chair, I motioned her into it then removed her handcuffs. She rubbed at her wrists and looked at me, then Sherlock, uncertain whether to trust us. I kept my gun visible, just to encourage her to be forthcoming.

“Good morning, Miss Shaw,” Sherlock said. They both looked a little worse for wear, I thought—there were dark circles under her eyes. I assumed she hadn’t gotten much sleep during her night of captivity. Sherlock didn’t look much better, eyes bloodshot, face a little pale. He had pushed himself up in the bed and leaned back against the headboard. “So, we find ourselves in an awkward situation.”

Bridget looked frightened. “I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes. Really, I am. I’m paid to do this, but I don’t have a choice. Russell, he makes me do it.”

"And how many times have you brought someone back here to take lurid photos?”

She looked down, embarrassed. “Twelve,” she said. “Russell and his boys, they watch for likely prospects entering the Hot Rave, then send me in.”

I studied her. “How old are you?” I asked.

She hesitated, then answered, “Seventeen.”

“Seventeen. Jesus!” I exclaimed. “How long has this Russell fellow been forcing you to do this?”

“Two years.”

Sherlock and I shared a long glance. I have never known him to be very emotional, certainly not sensitive to others’ feelings, but today I knew I detected shock and pity reflected in his eyes. For this girl to have been doing this since she was only fifteen….

“Please,” she pleaded. “Please don’t turn me in to the police.”

Sherlock frowned. “Don’t you think you might be safer with the police? Russell won’t be pleased that you failed to complete your task last night.”

“It’ll be okay, really,” she said. “I can convince Russell that you shook off the drug, got the upper hand and left.”

“Tell me more about Russell. What’s his last name?”

“Foster.”

“Miss Shaw,” said Sherlock, “We’ve got somewhere to hide you for now. I won’t turn you in to the police, but neither am I about to let you return to Russell. We don’t know what he might do to you. Does he have other girls that he uses in a similar fashion?”

Bridget nodded slowly. “But I’m the most experienced,” she added. “He needs me. I’m sure I’ll be fine.” 

Later that morning, a Saturday, we arrived at Molly Hooper’s flat, Bridget in tow. “Hoping you can keep an eye on Miss Shaw for the weekend,” said Sherlock as he swept past Molly into the flat.

“Of course,” she said.

I’d never been in her flat before. The walls were decorated with film posters. It was certainly neater than ours, though as a busy pathologist, it was apparent that Molly didn’t have enough time at home. A stack of laundry waited to be folded and the sitting room dustbin was overflowing, a pizza box teetering dangerously on top.

Sherlock turned to Molly. “Don’t let anyone in,” he warned. “We’re hiding Miss Shaw here from a very dangerous man. She’s also willing to be a witness.”

Molly’s cat, Toby, was pawing at Sherlock’s trouser leg, and she reached down to scoop him up. “How long?” she asked.

“I don’t expect it should take me more than 24 hours to locate the blackmailers,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ve put in a call to Grant…”

“Greg,” I corrected, shaking my head. He never could get Lestrade’s name right. I have a feeling that he does this on purpose, since he’s actually known DI Greg Lestrade longer than any of the rest of us. It was Lestrade who first gave him a chance to get into his current line of work, made sure he finished rehab (though Mycroft was instrumental with that as well).

“Yes, yes, Greg,” Sherlock said impatiently. “I’m expecting a call back from him soon. He should have some records on Russell Foster—can’t imagine he wouldn’t have some type of police record on him.”

Molly looked from Sherlock to me. “And then you’ll have Greg pick him up?” she asked uncertainly.

Sherlock gave her a disbelieving stare. “Of course not,” he scoffed, unconcerned. “John and I are more than capable of having a discussion with Mr. Foster. After all, we’re trying to recover those image files—it’ll be hard to do that with Scotland Yard breathing down our necks.”

I suppose I should have protested right then and there, but he seemed so sure of himself and just thinking about bringing down the mastermind who was forcing a teen girl to pose for nude photos with older, sometimes much older, men—well, it gave me quite a good feeling.

Molly looked worried. “Promise me you’ll both be careful,” she said.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth curled up in a smirk. “Aren’t we always?” he asked. “Thank you, Molly Hooper. I’ll call you later.”

We descended the stairs from Molly’s flat and grabbed a cab back to Baker Street. We’d only gotten as far as Russell Square before Sherlock’s phone buzzed.

“Lestrade?” he said. “What?” Sherlock turned to me, eyes narrowed, as he listened to the DI. “All right. We’ll be there shortly.” He hung up. “Murder,” he said. “Lestrade thinks it might be related to the case.”

The cab stopped in an exclusive neighborhood similar to that which we’d visited yesterday. Sherlock and I ducked under the police tape to find Donovan waiting near the entrance to a townhouse. “Freak’s here,” she announced.

As usual, Sherlock didn’t rise to her bait. He simply strode past her into the building, coat billowing behind him. Greg met us in the hall. “Victim’s Sir Roger Whitney,” he said, leading the way into the crime scene. “Rich as Croesus, lots of government connections, collected a lot of art, philanthropist. You mentioned you were on a blackmail case and this sounded similar, so thought you might be interested.”

Sir Roger’s body was sprawled over the back of a sofa, blood pooling on the cushions below him. Four gunshot wounds decorated his head and chest. The room was littered with papers from the man’s desk. Someone had torn the place apart.

Greg reached out with a gloved hand and picked up a stack of photos from the coffee table. “Found these right here beside the body.” 

I gave a low whistle. The girl in the photos with Sir Roger was Bridget. “So it looks like Sir Roger was being blackmailed as well, “ I mused.

“Clearly, John,” said Sherlock absently, as he flipped through the photos.

“But why kill him?” I asked. “Why eliminate a source of income?”

Sherlock was silent, brow furrowed in thought. “He knew who they were,” he replied suddenly. “Sir Roger here had discovered the identity of the blackmailers. Not only that, but he somehow obtained the original photos. He then threatened to expose the blackmail ring. They killed him, found the original photos, left them here for the world to see.” He handed the file back to Lestrade. “Sir Roger isn’t going to be able to provide us with any names, but clearly we’re dealing with ruthless people, people who are entirely willing to kill in order to protect themselves. Lestrade, any report on Russell Foster?”

The silver-haired DI shook his head. “Not a bloody thing,” he said. “Either he’s been under the radar, kept his nose clean—or Foster is an alias.”

Sherlock’s phone buzzed. “It’s Molly,” he said. “Molly, you’re on speaker mode, what is it?”

“Sherlock, she’s gone,” reported Molly frantically. “She was sitting here on my sofa watching telly, I got up to use the loo, and when I came back, she was gone. I didn’t hear any noise and there’s no sign of a struggle. I think she just left on her own. Sherlock—Sherlock, I’m sorry. You trusted me to keep her safe.”

He sighed in frustration. “Molly—it’s all right. You can’t save her from herself.” After hanging up, he turned to me. “Come on, John. It’s time to pay a visit to the homeless network.”

Once again, we found ourselves under Waterloo Bridge to hand off a £50 note to the same homeless woman we’d met there during our series of cases posed to us by Moriarty (see “The Great Game” blog). She pocketed the cash and gave Sherlock a nod, then climbed down from the pedestal she was sitting on and headed off into the waning afternoon light. Sherlock’s homeless network was vast, and surprisingly effective. Within minutes, that young woman would have spread Sherlock’s message…”FIND RUSSELL FOSTER AND REPORT HIS LOCATION.”

Having nothing else to do but wait, we headed back to Baker Street. When we arrived, we found Mycroft’s black sedan sitting outside. An annoyed scowl appeared on Sherlock’s face and he pushed open the outside door before thundering up the stairs.

His older brother was seated in my chair, reading a book. He looked up at our entrance. “Well, brother mine, I see you’ve met Sir Roger Whitney.”

“We didn’t have any sparkling conversation, Mycroft,” Sherlock replied as he hung up his coat and crossed the room to sink into his own chair across from his brother. “Why are you here?”

Mycroft studied his nails for a moment. “It has come to my attention that various secrets have turned up for sale. As you are no doubt aware, Sir Roger had many ties to the government. If he was indeed being blackmailed, then we are highly concerned that part of his requirements may have been the dissemination of classified information. In addition, there’s no telling how many other bureaucrats the ring has ensnared.”

Sherlock, as he often liked to do whenever Mycroft dropped by, leaned over and picked up his violin. He plucked lightly at the strings, his pale blue-green eyes thoughtful.

“You really think all these civil service employees frequent the Hot Rave?” I asked.

“Unlikely,” Mycroft said, turning to me. “I suspect that you have only scratched the surface of the ring’s activities. There may be many other locations and means of trapping their prey. Sherlock, I don’t think I need remind you of the potentially disastrous nature of this problem. It goes far beyond a few celebrities and their petty lives.”

“Rest assured, Mycroft,” said Sherlock, playing with his bow, “I’m searching London as we speak. Our source has indicated that the chief rat hides out in Peckham. It’ll only be a matter of time before we run him to ground.”

I was sitting with my feet up, eating Potnoodle, watching crap telly with Sherlock, who persisted in making deductions about the characters in the drama we were viewing, when his phone buzzed loudly.

_Another murder. You need to come. You may be able to identify the body. – GL_

_Where? – SH_

_Copperas Street, Deptford. Derelict factory. – GL_

_Give us half an hour. – SH_

Sherlock returned his phone to his pocket then turned to me, an odd look on his features. “John,” he said quietly, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, but one that I feel ends at the right place. Don't worry, the next one is a bit longer!

Copperas Street wasn’t far south of the river. Sherlock noted that it had once been home to a number of factories that processed copperas, better known as iron sulfate or green vitriol, which is found in London clay. Eventually the processing methods changed and the factories closed, falling into disrepair. It was full dark by now and as our cab turned the corner from Creekside Road, the flashing lights of several police cars lit the area near one of the old warehouses. Tall weeds thrust themselves up through the cracks in the concrete nearby. The windows were either boarded up or smashed. Lestrade met us in the street.

“Thought I’d better contact you right away on this,” he said, “after you told me what you were up to.”

He led us inside past the barriers and tape, to a large room littered with rusty metal equipment, shelves, rubbish, and a few old mattresses. The forensics squad was standing near a mattress on the other side of the room. Lestrade gave them a jerk of his head, and they cleared away for our arrival. Sherlock had been right behind Lestrade, but he stopped suddenly, and I heard his sharp intake of breath. My eyes followed his gaze to the mattress. There was a body, small, slender, with blond hair. The hair was matted with blood. 

“Oh, God…Bridget,” I whispered.

Her sightless eyes stared across the floor of the warehouse. We’ve been to a lot of crime scenes—I’ve seen brutal murders before, I’ve lived through a war, for God’s sake, but this…this completely stopped me in my tracks. It’s different when you’ve talked to the victim, saw them alive mere hours before. I glanced at Sherlock. His face was stony, hard. His eyes were ice. He knelt down to examine Bridget’s body, and I recovered from the initial shock to join him. 

“Severe blunt head trauma,” I declared, studying where the back of her skull had been crushed. There were bruises elsewhere on her exposed skin. “Looks like she was beaten first.”

Lestrade was watching Sherlock intently. “This was the girl you mentioned, then?”

My friend met Lestrade’s gaze and nodded silently. He stood. “Bridget Shaw, seventeen years of age, worked for our blackmailer Russell Foster for at least two years. We left her somewhere safe this morning but she ran off, apparently right back to Foster, who felt he needed to make an example of her to his other workers.”

“She wasn’t as indispensable as she thought,” I mused, sighing. I looked up to see Sherlock disappearing out the side door. Waving a brief goodbye to Lestrade, I followed him. I found my friend leaning against the ancient brick of the building, staring out toward the Thames. 

“You all right?”

He glanced at me, nodded, and turned back to the river. Taking a deep breath, he said, “John…I’ve never lost a client. Not until now.”

“Sherlock, she wasn’t a client,” I pointed out.

Sherlock studied his feet for a second then turned to me. “Not in the usual respects,” he admitted, “but it’s like she was.” 

So…I thought, my friend does have a heart, after all. “It’s not your fault, Sherlock. She wasn’t your responsibility—and she went back to him of her own volition. Think about it. There wasn’t anything we could have done.”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Frustrating.”

“I know,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. I turned to join him in leaning against the wall, a rage beginning to slowly burn inside me. “Damn. Seventeen years old. Sherlock—I’m thinking this has to stop.” 

“What?”

“All of this. Foster’s gang, his whole network. He’s using children. And then he kills them. Tell me, Sherlock.”

He looked at me, inquisitive. “Tell you what?”

“Tell me how we’re going to take them down.”


	5. Chapter 5

And so it was that we found ourselves in a seedy alley in Peckham, hiding behind some rubbish bins, watching the back door of a pub for the exit or arrival of our quarry. The homeless network had performed brilliantly; they had Foster’s location for us by the time we returned to Baker Street later that night. We had been shown a photo taken by one of Sherlock’s people. Foster wore his longish brown hair tied back. He had a square jaw set on a ruddy face. Sherlock and I were both impatient to bring this investigation to an end—mostly because Foster had to be stopped, and also because Mycroft had sent Sherlock a text asking if we had made any progress, so we set out from the flat for the second time that night. 

It was nearly eleven now, and the Fox & Hound’s patrons were slowly filtering out the main exit into the nearby street. I reached into my jacket pocket and felt the reassuring metal of the Browning. Headlamps panned across the alley as a black SUV turned at the corner and entered, coming to a halt near the rear exit door of the pub. Three men got out of the car. One of them was Foster. The driver was about my height, and the other passenger was a behemoth. The three of them entered the pub through the rear entrance and all was once again silent in the alley. 

Sherlock leaned out around the side of the skip and darted across the alley to the entrance door, me close behind. After trying the door and finding it locked, he gestured to my coat pocket, and I drew the Browning. My breath quickened, the familiar, welcome rush of epinephrine flooding my circulation as I followed Sherlock into certain danger. I gripped the Browning more tightly, nodding my readiness to my friend. He reached into a pocket, withdrawing a lock-pick, and expertly picked the lock within a few minutes. Carefully opening the door, he moved quickly out of my way as I covered his entrance.

We were in a small storage room--kegs of beer, cases of whisky, boxes of crisp packets. Foster and his men were nowhere in sight. 

“John,” Sherlock whispered, “Check the pub.” 

I gently pushed open one of the two doors from the room and found myself in the pub’s kitchen. The smell of hot grease hung in the air. Looking into the main room of the pub and finding it empty, I turned back to find Sherlock. That was when a massive fist caught me in the side of the head. There was a brief sensation of blackness and then I found myself on the floor, struggling to hold onto my weapon. I swung the gun toward my attacker, the behemoth, but as I fired, he ducked and struck me on the forearm with a heavy wrench. There was an explosion of pain in my arm as the gun skittered away under a sink. 

The monster reached down to grab me by the front of my coat, which I answered by bringing my knee up to smash into his groin. I heard a yelp of pain, and then nothing as the wrench, wielded by Sherlock, hit the man in the side of the head. Behemoth dropped me to the floor. 

Sherlock looked down at the Behemoth. “Idiot,” he commented.

I staggered to my feet and reached out to hit the lights. I hissed, “They’ll have heard my gunshot.”

“Are you all right?” 

I gingerly touched my forearm. “Maybe broken,” I admitted. “Maybe just a contusion. Gonna need an x-ray. I’ve been concussed, too.”

“Sherlock Holmes!” boomed a voice from somewhere outside the kitchen. “Come on out!” There was a muffled scream. We moved back into the storage room and through the other door into a large office.   
Foster sat on the couch with another girl, likely another of his workers like Bridget. A wide piece of tape covered her mouth. Her eyes were wide with fear. 

Foster grinned nastily. “And here you are, Mr. Holmes. Figured you’d show up sooner or later.”

“We’ve shown up sooner, apparently,” Sherlock returned smoothly. “Didn’t take long to find you.” 

I was aware of the presence of Foster’s driver and another henchman, this one with an ugly scar on his left cheek, standing behind us. It was quite clear that we were in a very sticky situation. Foster leered at the girl, then his gaze returned to us and the smile faded. “Now then,” he said, “What am I to do with you?”

“Well, you could just say goodnight and let us go.”

There was a bark of laughter from the driver behind me. Foster smirked at Sherlock. “As you may have noticed by now, Mr. Holmes, I’m not a man who forgives easily.”

“Oh, I certainly noticed,” Sherlock said. “Sir Roger Whitney…Bridget Shaw…there’s no shortage of bodies littering London, thanks to you.”

“Yeh, poor Bridget. Hot enough to be on Page 3, you know? But she made quite a cock-up of gettin’ with you, didn’t she? Had to use her soft little head as a bit of motivation for the rest of my…employees,” Foster drawled as he ran a finger down the girl’s cheek. “And this one ‘ere was about ready to go to right to Scotland Yard and spill all she knew. So now I have to decide what to do with her.” His eyes traveled down her form eagerly, and I felt sickened. “But I have another idea, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock stiffened, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “And that would be?”

“I’ll let this one go, on one condition—that you come with me instead. Otherwise, I’ll do the same to her as I did to sweet Bridget. And maybe I’ll also occupy my time by destroying your boyfriend here, inch by inch.”

“I’m not his boyfriend,” I growled.

“Whatever,” Foster laughed. “What do you say, Mr. Holmes? I’m sure your brother would pay dearly to ransom you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, glancing at me, as if to say, don’t count on it. Instead he replied, “If I come with you, you’ll have to let Dr. Watson and the girl go first.”

“Sherlock,” I started. “No….”

He turned to me. “John— I am entirely convinced that if I don’t, he will do everything that he has threatened tonight. You know my methods, you know what to do. I’m depending on you.” His eyes bored into me. 

Really? He thought I knew what to do? While I was pleased with his confidence in me, I was certain that without his guidance, I wouldn’t be much help to him. “Sherlock, they can take me instead.”

“Nope,” said Foster. “Let’s just kill you all, then. We’ll start with her, then the doctor, then Holmes.”

“I’ll be your hostage, Foster,” said Sherlock angrily. “They go free.”

“All right, Mr. Holmes,” said Foster grinning impudently. “I’ll release them.” He hauled the girl to her feet and brought her over to me. The other henchman grasped Sherlock by the arms, and the driver drew his weapon, herding the girl and me toward the door. 

I looked back as I was shoved forward. “Sherlock,” I vowed, “I will find you.” 

He nodded. “I’m counting on it.”

“Not bloody likely,” said Foster.

And with that, a final push by the driver thrust me through the door into the street. “Run,” the driver said, cocking his sidearm. Jesus, was he just going to shoot us as we fled? I grabbed the girl’s hand and dragged her behind me as I took off. My right arm protested as I struggled to run. When we were about eighty feet away, gunfire rang out in the confined space of the alley and I heard a bullet whiz by my head, hitting the wall as we sprinted. I pulled her around the corner and we stopped to catch our breath. She fell to the ground. 

“What’s your name?” I asked, breathing heavily.

“Sara,” she whimpered. 

Giving her an encouraging smile that I didn’t really feel, I said, “Nice to meet you, Sara. I’m John Watson.”

I risked a look around the corner. The driver had gone back inside and the door was shut. “All right, Sara,” I told her. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to get you to Scotland Yard, and you’re going to answer some questions. I’m hoping you may be able to help me. Believe me when I tell you that you might be my only hope.”

The sound of an engine drew my attention. A few seconds later, the SUV came barreling out of the alley, five passengers inside. They must’ve brought Behemoth around. Sherlock was in the back between him and Scarface. He turned as the car rounded the corner, saw me standing in the streetlight’s glow, and then they were gone, taillights receding in the distance. I felt as if there was a burning hole in my chest, but I knew I couldn’t just stand here and stare after them. 

I reached down for Sara’s hand. “Come with me,” I ordered. We went back the pub’s back entrance. “Are there any other people inside?” I asked her.

“No,” she said, “should be deserted.” 

Letting my anger build, I took a few steps back then rushed the door and gave it a stout kick. It flew off its hinges. 

“What are you doing?” she asked. “I thought you said we were going to the police.” 

“We are,” I replied. “But I’m getting my gun back first.” We went inside and into the kitchen. As I bent down to retrieve my Browning, I felt a wave a nausea and a throbbing in my head. Damned concussion.  
I was going to have to be careful. A second head injury now could be deadly. “Sara,” I sighed. “Pick that up for me, will you?” 

She reached under the sink and handed the gun up to me. I checked the clip and put on the safety, then stuck it back into my jacket. “Let’s go,” I said.

 

As Sara and I headed into the darkness, making our way to a main street, my mind was in turmoil. I felt completely hopeless, unable to think, on the edge of panic. The adrenaline that I had enjoyed so much earlier was now coursing through me again, but this time, I felt no surge of happiness. Sherlock was somewhere in London with a near-madman and his gang, relying on me to get him out of the situation. I knew I had to get Sara to Lestrade, but what then? I needed to contact Mycroft, tell him what had happened. He was not going to be happy. 

Sighing, I pulled out my phone as we walked. 

Mycroft, Sherlock’s been kidnapped. – JW 

What happened? – MH

Foster was going to kill us and one of his girls, but Sherlock offered himself as hostage. – JW

Where are you? – MH

Peckham. On Talfourd Road, headed to Peckham Road. – JW

I’m sending a car. You’ll recognize it. Just stay out of sight until it gets there. – MH 

I stepped into the shadow of a tree, pulling Sara with me. “We’re waiting for a ride.”

Within ten minutes, a familiar black sedan rolled quietly down the street. I stepped out from the shadows into the light from the streetlamps. The sedan came to a halt and Anthea rolled down the window. 

“Get in,” she said. 

We clambered into the back of the car, which carried us away from Peckham, away from (or possibly toward) where Sherlock waited. God knows what Foster might do to him, just for fun, while awaiting the answers to ransom demands. My mind raced. How in bloody hell did Sherlock do this, thrive on this? Of course, I made life-or-death decisions in my job all the time, but to work with so little information, with a life in the balance—oh, hell.   
The car stopped in front of a government building on Whitehall and we were hustled inside by Anthea. We entered Mycroft’s office there to find him poring over a map of London with Lestrade and Donovan. They looked up at our arrival. 

“John,” Mycroft said, “At last. What happened in Peckham?” 

I sat down heavily in one of the chairs near his desk and described in detail our encounter with Foster and his men, then asked, “Have you heard from Foster? Any ransom demands?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “They’re wanting £10,000,000 and a free trip to South America. We weren’t able to trace the call, but we did record it.”

“May I hear it?” I asked. 

The two police officers and the British government shared a concerned look. “All right,” Mycroft agreed, “But you may wish you hadn’t.”

My anxiety suddenly increased ten-fold. “Maybe,” I said, “But I have to. Play it.”

Donovan reached out and touched the playback button on a voice recorder. What I heard first shook me to my core. It was a groan of pain, and though I had never heard those kinds of utterances from him, I knew it must be Sherlock. There was a muffled thud and another sound, a kind of strangled sound that was quickly controlled by its owner. He was struggling not to scream. Then gasping breaths, and one brief, low, involuntary moan. 

I looked up at Mycroft. A pained expression was on his face as he sat, listening once again to the sounds of his brother undergoing torment. Lestrade was biting his knuckles, and even Donovan, who had never shown a shred of regard for Sherlock, appeared uncomfortable. 

“Mycroft Holmes,” Foster’s voice rumbled, “We have your little brother as our guest. I realize this sounds like a bad movie, but if you want to see him alive again, you’ll have £10,000,000 and a private jet for me and my boys, ready in five hours, ready to fly to Brazil. If you’d like for him to not be permanently injured or disfigured, you’ll have it for me in four. Work on getting it ready and I’ll call again in an hour.”

Mycroft’s voice. “I want to speak with him.” 

“Oh, now, Mr. Holmes , I’m the one in charge here. You just get my money, alright?”

Mycroft’s voice hardened. “You let me speak with Sherlock or there’s no deal.”

“All right, then,” Foster agreed. I could hear him turn, speaking to someone else in the room. “Bring ‘im over here.”

Another distant groan, a dragging noise.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock’s usual strong baritone was faint, gasping, as if every breath was painful. “Sorry, brother. Seem to have fallen in with the wrong crowd.”

“We’ll be working on Foster’s demands.”

“Are you serious? You really think I’m worth £10 million? I wouldn’t pay that much for you, certainly. Take care, brother mine. Look out for John and Mrs. Hudson for me, will you? And tell John…tell him to find and kill these imbeciles.”

The sound of something blunt hitting flesh. Another groan, and silence.

“Sherlock—”

Foster broke in. “Oh, relax. He’s alive—for now. Ten million, Mr. Holmes. You’ll be hearing from me.”

Click.

The silence in Mycroft’s office was palpable. I needed to get out of there, get out and be looking for Sherlock. I turned to the three at the desk and motioned to the young girl behind me. “This is Sara,” I said. “She worked for Foster. I think she might be able to help us out.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated T for language.

An hour later, outfitted in black from Mycroft’s people, with a splint on my right arm, gun in my hand, and a new determination in my heart, I slipped back into the alley near the Fox and Hound, hoping I might come up with a clue that might lead us in the right direction. Sara had described at least six separate bolt-holes for Foster’s gang, and though Mycroft and Greg had both been ready to storm all six of them at once, we were hoping to narrow it down. I volunteered to return to the pub to look it over. I just had a hunch that we might find something important here, something that would speed our attempt to rescue Sherlock. McLeod, one of Mycroft’s men, shadowed me. This took me back to my Army days, those times when we would infiltrate a village or town. I supposed I looked every inch a soldier again—black face camo, black stocking cap, black everything—actually, I looked more like a commando, and felt like it, too. 

I nodded at McLeod and approached the pub’s doorway. The door itself rested to one side, a result of my kick from earlier. We carefully re-entered the back room, and once we’d ascertained there was no-one lying in wait for us, I let my eyes study the room, uncertain what I was looking for, and sure that I wasn’t up to the task.

“You know my methods. You know what to do.”

It was just a whisper inside my head, but the recollection of Sherlock’s final instructions to me played out with a clarity better than most of my other memories. You know my methods. Sherlock merely had to glance around a room to read its entire story. I knew I didn’t have that skill, but I was a doctor, and we are trained to observe. He was forever reminding me that I saw, but did not observe. Well, Sherlock was in trouble, and I had to do this. The game is on, I told myself. Solve this.

Nothing really seemed out-of-place. Then my vision landed on a piece of paper lying near the couch. I bent to pick it up, head still throbbing slightly. I brief wave of dizziness passed over me. I squeezed my eyes shut and let it pass. Taking a closer look at the paper, I could see it was a receipt from a curry shop in Hackney. One of Foster’s hideouts was there, disguised as a bookseller. Maybe Hackney.

A noise from the front of the pub startled us. Moving quickly, McLeod and I took up positions on either side of the kitchen door. The door opened and a young man with the shaved head and tattoos of a neo-Nazi walked in, unsuspecting. McLeod sprang out and tackled him from behind. 

“Oi!” he protested. “Gerroff me!” 

I leveled my sidearm at the struggling skinhead. “Not until you tell us where to find Russell Foster.”

“Hey, wotchit,” he said. “I ain’t gonna tell you nuffin!”

“Tell me now,” I ordered.

“Fuck you, wanker,” he spat.

McLeod had cuffed the kid and still straddled him on the floor. “Oh, just kill him, Watson,” he said. “He’s not gonna talk, and we can’t leave witnesses.” He winked at me.

And though it went against my every instinct as a healer, I also knew I’d do anything to locate and save my friend. I leaned down and shoved the barrel of the gun into the kid’s ear. “All right,” I said gruffly.

“Oi, oi, mate!” he squealed, scared witless. I must’ve looked really merciless, or maybe just desperate. “I don’t know where they are.”

Trying to sound utterly cold-blooded, I cocked the gun and shouted, “Tell me now! Or I’ll kill you, I swear to God!”

“Hackney!” he blubbered, breaking down completely. “They’re in Hackney, I swear! Please, just don’t kill me.”

I lowered the gun and motioned to McLeod, who yanked the kid to his feet. “Come on now, lad,” he said. “Let’s go.” And he marched the kid out into the alley. Pulling out my phone, I called Mycroft. 

“Hackney,” I said. “We’re going to Hackney.” 

“Our teams are ready to move in.”

I jogged up the alley. “Get me there,” I said. “I want in on this. Besides, you might need me.”

“John,” Mycroft warned, “This will be extremely dangerous….”

“I can handle myself, Mycroft, and the danger doesn’t concern me.” I climbed back into Anthea’s car, and another arrived to pick up McLeod and his prisoner. We had only three hours left at most.

 

Utter darkness. When Sherlock woke, he opened his eyes to find himself in a completely dark environment. He strained with his other senses, listening and sniffing the fetid air. No clues as to his exact location. Damn. He knew he had been in Hackney, despite Foster’s men having placed a blind over his head as they drove. Under the blind, he dove into the Mind Palace, and his vast knowledge of London’s streets served him well. Sherlock knew every stop the SUV had made, every turn. Now, however, after he had lost consciousness when one of Foster’s men had struck him during the phone call to Mycroft, he wasn’t sure if they had moved him. He lay quietly, taking stock of his condition. Foster’s men had beaten him mercilessly, and with every breath, pain lanced through his right chest. He touched his right side gingerly, wincing. He likely had a few broken ribs. They’d broken a couple of fingers, too. If they had ruined his ability to play the violin…. He tasted blood in his mouth, spat it out. Sherlock painfully reached out a hand until his fingers came into contact with a rough wooden wall. He rolled to his relatively uninjured side then slowly got to his knees. Stretching out both arms, he worked his way along the wall until he reached a corner in a few feet. A suspicion came over him and he raised an arm to find wood just inches from head. He seemed to be in a crate or a closet, but judging from the rough quality of the wood, he deduced it to be the former. Still no data to help him. John, he thought. Where are you? I know you and Mycroft can figure this out. 

He only had to survive until they could find him. 

 

I sat in the back of an unmarked police van with Lestrade and his team, waiting for Mycroft’s signal to storm Foster’s hideout in Hackney. It was a veritable fortress—a warehouse protected by armed guards at each entrance, any of which could sound the alarm if allowed. As we waited, Mycroft’s snipers scaled nearby buildings, gaining the rooftops in order to take out the guards. My heels tapped out an irregular rhythm on the floor of the van as my knees bounced nervously. I was more than ready to get out there, but worried about how we would find Sherlock, if at all. In my mind, an image of him, lying crumpled and lifeless came unbidden. I felt sick to my stomach, and not because of the concussion. The thought of my best friend, forever gone, weighed strongly on my heart and mind, threatening to overwhelm me. 

“John?” Lestrade asked. “You okay, mate?”

I looked quickly up at him, eyes a little wild. “Yeah,” I responded. “I’m fine. Or, I will be, once this gets started.” 

“Me, too,” he agreed, adjusting his bullet-proof vest.

I looked down at my own vest, which Mycroft had insisted I wear. It was a bit constrictive, but I had given in to Sherlock’s brother’s demands and allowed myself to be so outfitted. 

I heard Mycroft’s voice in my earpiece. “We’re ready. Stand by.” There were some faint pops from outside, his snipers taking down the guards with silenced weapons. “Go,” Mycroft urged. “We have twenty minutes until the deadline. Go now.”

Lestrade nodded to the officer at the rear to open the van’s door, and we spilled into the street. 

 

Sherlock wasn’t surprised when the crate’s side opened, flooding his prison with light. He raised a hand to shield his eyes until he could make out the bulky form of Foster standing before him. “Well, Mr. Holmes, we have yet to hear from your brother. Maybe he’s backing out on our deal after all.” He reached down and grabbed the collar of the Detective’s coat, yanking him out of the crate. Sherlock got painfully to his feet, batting Foster’s arm away and fixing him with his deadliest glare. Angrily, the blackmailer raised his 9 mm, ready to fire, as the lights went out and the entire cavernous room was plunged into darkness. As painful as it was, Sherlock moved, taking this one opportunity to escape. He barreled into Foster, knocking his weapon away. He then turned and darted in another direction in the blackness, breath catching agonizingly as he ran, unable to see, hoping to find cover before the return of illumination. He grinned, pain notwithstanding. John. John had found him.

 

“Shit,” Foster swore, stumbling and reaching about on the ground for his gun. “Dammit, you berks—gimme some light!” His hand found the gun and his fingers curled around its grip. He heard running feet not far from him and fired blindly into the darkness. As the gun went off, it was followed by several others—not his, not his men’s. He heard several of his men fall, but miraculously, he was unscathed. He ran into the dark after Holmes. Everything was chaos. There was suddenly shouting, more gunfire. 

 

I rushed into the warehouse with Lestrade’s team as Mycroft’s teams covered the other exits. It was pitch-black in there. I felt a sudden blow on my chest, as if I’d been struck by a sledgehammer, and fell to the hard floor. Someone had shot at me, but the vest stopped the deadly round. Not as bad as actually being shot, but it still hurt like hell. That was going to leave a bruise. I winced as I forced myself to get up. The power had been cut, but something was wrong. The lights weren’t coming on again as we’d planned. As if in slow-motion, another gunshot from directly ahead, the muzzle flash illuminating its gunman for a split-second. I raised my Browning and fired twice at the location of the muzzle flash. There was a groan of pain, a satisfying thump, then nothing. Behind me, I could hear the police team subduing Foster’s remaining men. I pulled my torch from my weapons belt, flicking it on, scanning the room. Foster sprawled on the floor, spread-eagled, dead, likely by my hand. I continued to search with the light. It came to rest on a form in a dark coat some forty feet away, stretched out on the concrete floor. He wasn’t moving. 

I broke into a run, despite my throbbing head, and dropped to my knees at Sherlock’s side. I tucked the Browning back into my belt holster and carefully turned him over, feeling for a pulse. There it was, thank God. His breathing was regular. I could find no evidence that he’d been shot, just an abrasion on his forehead, probably from falling in the dark, but with the limited light from my torch, I couldn’t be certain. Dried blood was all around his nose and mouth. “Sherlock,” I said, then more urgently, “Sherlock!” 

“John?” I heard Lestrade call. “Did you find him?”

“Yes, Greg, over here!” I shouted. “I need light, now!” I gently lifted Sherlock’s eyelids, shining my flashlight. His pupils responded well, another good sign. His eyes suddenly squeezed shut on their own.

“Ow,” he complained. “Stop that.”

I grinned. “Sherlock?”

He squinted into the low light, seeing nothing but a black-clad figure leaning over him. “John?” he asked. 

“It’s really me,” I said. “Under all this.” 

My friend lowered his head to rest against the cool floor. “I was wondering when you’d get here. Knew you’d find me, just didn’t know if you’d be in time.”

I wiped away a tear of relief. “I’ll always find you, Sherlock,” I said. 

The lights turned on. The corner of his mouth curled up in a small smile as he looked me over, noting the damage to the vest, the enlarging bruise on my face under my camo paint. 

“Good God, John,” he said. “You look a sight.”

“I could say the same for you,” I retorted, removing my black stocking cap and tucking it under his head.

“Hmm,” he agreed. “So, what happened to Foster?”

I glanced back to where the blackmailer lay. “I shot him,” I said. “Or, at least, I think I did. Couldn’t be sure in the dark.”

“Mycroft’ll be happy.” 

“He already is,” Lestrade put in, having walked over to join us. “His people are checking out Foster’s computers and files now. Looks like we’ve plugged the security leak.”

I looked from Sherlock to myself, taking stock of our injuries. “Sherlock,” I began.

“Yep?”

“Remind me to stop encouraging you to take on blackmail cases.”

 

So, that’s the case. Mycroft was indeed extremely happy to have found the security leak, which was indeed plugged for good. Sherlock spent the night in the hospital, and was cleared for release the next day, his fingers splinted. Not much to do for the rib fractures, just pain meds, which he entrusted to me to manage. I was seen in A & E, and my concussion deemed to be mild. I was chastised by my colleague about the dangers of activity after concussion injury, and promised to take it easy for the next several days. We got a nice cheque from Mr. Armistead, too. Life is returning to normal, or as normal as it can get around 221B Baker Street….

“BORED!!!”


End file.
